


Value

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: And yet work really well with each other, Bitter coworkers who don't know how to deal with each other, Blood, Cats, Chess Metaphors, Death (discussed), M/M, Rage, Savoy, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: “A problem, Captain?” Richelieu asked, all silk and eloquence.“No,” Treville said, swallowing his rage and straightening his back. “None at all.”





	1. Chapter 1

Treville’s blood boiled and his hands ached to grab those red robes and shake Richelieu until he’d understand what the sight of blood soaking the ground looked like right after a slaughter of a hundred unassuming men. Richelieu’s neck was smooth and delicate. There were no bruises or scars there, nor was it sunburned. How easy it would be to reach out and drag him into a secluded corridor, screaming at him at the top of his voice, pushing his fingers into that neck. How easy it would be to kill him.

Treville knew about the daggers hidden on Richelieu’s person, that he barely ate and tested his food and drink for poison. He kept a fork underneath his pillow, and a hoard of cats to alert him to any unwelcome guests.

Richelieu was prepared for assassins and paranoid and hateful courtiers. But he wasn’t prepared for Treville.

A soldier didn’t have much use for poisons or easily-hidden short-range bows and all the little weapons other people would think of in order to stage a certain kind of death.

Dark robes swept the exquisite floors of the Louvre as Richelieu strode towards the king, his eyes lingering on Treville’s face. The sound of the material on the floor was so faint that it might as well not be there, but it was the sound of the possibility of a greater France.

Treville looked down at his own cloak, swallowing the bile in his throat. The color matching the sky outside perfectly.

Hundreds of cloaks in the same shade had been blood-soaked and covered in mud only a few years ago. And it would be the fate of hundreds more, and most likely his own, one day.

He’d lived wearing blue, and he’d die wearing it too. Perhaps he wasn’t a pawn on Richelieu’s chessboard, but he certainly could not count of being considered indispensable. 

The taste of copper lingered in his mouth, having bitten the inside of his cheek earlier today. If he’d open his mouth, his teeth would be red.

“A problem, Captain?” he asked, all silk and eloquence. 

“No,” Treville said, swallowing his rage and straightening his back. “None at all.”

Richelieu nodded, already half-way across the room. It was the same nod as when they collaborated on a plan. Other men spat in their palms and shook hands, but Richelieu would just move his head and glance at the other person in the room.

One day, he’d send Treville on a grand mission of some kind, moving the chess piece. And Treville would go, because that had always been a part of their arrangement. These days, Richelieu never asked him to go on missions that weren’t vital to France’s future.

Perhaps that was a hint that Treville wasn’t a pawn, but a knight or a tower. Refusing to move at all would ruin the game and eventually the board. So Treville moved when asked after being given a good explanation, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

He couldn’t stay in the garrison for the rest of his life. And he knew the value of the game.


	2. Chapter 2

The rumor about Richelieu’s return to Paris had spread through the city like a fire through a forest, consuming every conversation. It was as if even the wind whispered Richelieu’s name as Treville made his way to the Louvre. Richelieu was still limping and spending his nights frantically reading endless letters, but the familiar cunning gleam had returned to his eyes. His hands were steady these days when they gripped Treville’s arm as they walked, his lips dry as he kissed Treville’s jaw at night.

Heads turned as Treville strode through the hallways, the Musketeers following him like ducklings after their parent. His blue cloak slid across the floor and the feather in his hat fluttered in the faint breeze.

“Is this what happens when the Captain gets angry enough?” D’Artagnan said, his attempt at a whisper failing utterly. Treville allowed himself a small smile, watching as courtiers jumped back at the sight of him. “Does he dig up the devil and bring him back to Paris?”

Yes, he wanted to say. This was what happened when you focused all your burning rage and howling grief into digging up scraps of evidence until you could justify riding to Spain and breaking into a well-guarded prison. This was what happened when someone like Treville decided to get the love of his life back.

Paris was still holding its breath after Richelieu’s return. Red material swept the floor again, like it had before and it was if the sun had started shining again.

Treville continued walking, not turning his head. He’d overheard dozens of remarks like this in the past few weeks and D’Artagnan just sounded impressed. Young Musketeers often fell into the trap of thinking as Treville as the boss, and not someone who was also a Musketeer, with the same strand of hopeful foolishness in his heart that might have been called stupidity or madness by others. It had driven him to work with the Red Guards to get Armand back. It had interrupted his dreams for months on end. He’d found himself digging up tons of earth in his sleep, bloody blisters on his hands and cold mud soaking into the cloth above his boots.

Well.

He’d found Armand in the end.

Alive too.

“Anyone can dig up the wrong grave.” Athos muttered. “Some people at court aren’t happy, I can tell you that.”

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Porthos said. “Didn’t you listen to him before we rode half-way across France?”

Athos grumbled something that Treville didn’t quite catch. He could hear Richelieu’s bootsteps and hear his voice echoing in a nearby room, and that sort of thing tended to divert your attention when you’d spent months trying to get used to his absence.

In his dreams, he’d often dug until his hands were blood-soaked, until his knees gave out. At night, he’d dug, and during the day he’d scrutinize maps and documents and speak with Red Guards. He’d listened to hush conversations and planned. And plotted.

It had helped keeping the grief at bay, to keep himself from drowning. He’d stared at drawings of little villages until his eyes would sting and allowed himself to hope as evidence gathered and facts become clear. It had all been done in secret, of course.

He hadn’t been able to grieve openly.

So he’d got Richlieu back. He’d lifted him up from that disgusting floor in the cell and carried him to the horses waiting outside. He’d felt his heart galloping in his chest when he heard Armand whispering prayers into the crook of his neck as Armand lay in his arms.

Guards had fled at the sight of him and then they’d been stopped by his Musketeers. Treville had barely listened to the clatter of swords. He’d focused on getting Armand into the saddle and out of that damned place.

 “And it’s not like the Captain brought the Cardinal back to life,” Aramis reasoned. “You have to be dead first for that to work.”

Odd, how Treville had felt as he’d started living again as soon as they’d reached Paris. Richelieu had been awake and still praying, his breathing shallow. He’d put a shaky hand on Treville’s shoulder, straightening up behind him in the saddle instead of clutching his middle.

“Might as well have dug him up from the earth with how dirty we were when we broke into that prison,” Treville said, his grin all teeth.

The men all hummed in agreement.

It was at that moment that Richelieu strode into the hallway, walking beside the king and gesturing with an elegant wave of the hand. As soon as Richelieu’s eyes met Treville’s, a tiny smile appeared on the Cardinal’s face. The king grinned, so delighted that he was almost bouncing up and down.

“What a change, Treville,” Louis said, sweeping them all along as he continued his stroll around the Louvre. “Having the Cardinal back with us is truly a gift from God.”

“I’m sure that God guided Captain Treville in his search for me, your highness,” Richelieu said, inclining his head.

The king nodded, grinning again as if he couldn’t believe his luck of having the Cardinal beside him again.

Treville smiled, not bothering to hide it behind his hand. Richelieu’s pace was slower than it had been before his imprisonment but they fell into step as if no time had passed at all. Golden sunshine pooled from the windows as they walked towards the future.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be lighter and softer, with comfort and romance. It is still being outlined.


End file.
